caldrail

Let us know if you find the reference - I'd like to know how true this is as well.

I think it might be a mistake to assume the Romans had the best materials. I'm not saying they didn't, but Persia had access to the inheritance of anatolian expertise as well, and the celts had a tradition of 'magic swords' which does imply a small number of high quality blades which is borne out by archaeological evidence.

The plot was always very simple. Something arrives on planet Earth, discovered in a remote spot, and once recovered from the shock of such a crash landing the alien presence begins to take over the world, slowly at first, then in a tumultuous wave of conquest once they realise how puny earthlings are. Mankind tries everything and resorts to atomic bombs, but to no avail, and the remorseless aliens keep marching onward. That is, until some simple thing defeats them in the last five minutes of the film. The hero kisses the girl who's spent the last two hours screaming, and fade to black with closing credits. If it's that easy, why worry about alien invasion? Just run about and make wild pompous statements for two hours until the aliens die off - hey, you might even get to have sex afterward. Yet despite this wisdom from the fifties film industry, we still believe there is a threat to Earth from outer space. It's a very medieval attitude. Dog-heads and dragons inhabiting bits of the map we've never been to. At least some people take that seriously. So much so that the European Space Agency has spent a cool 1.29 billion dollars on a probe called Rosetta, which has been to the asteroid belt to take images of Lutetia, a potato shaped asteroid that's been minding it's own business for billions of years. The ESA claim the fly-by shooting was a great success, and that the images could one day save Earth from destruction. Want to save the Earth from alien onvasion? Don't wait for them to trample your cities. Take photographs now, and blackmail their little green hides. Whilst Under Our Feet... A couple of day ago I took advantage of the warm sunshine and wandered out to the grassy escarpment above Swindons Front Garden. For those that don't know, that's the strip of land between the town and the motorway, following the valley between Swindon Hill and Wroughton Ridge. Many a time I've enjoyed the view, but sadly, life goes on, and nothing stays the same forever. The Wichelstok village development is now dominating the valley. Rows of bland modern houses, and an unfinished steel framework of a larger building. I sat there on the slope of an unspoiled field, an undulating mix of pasture and marsh, thickets of colourless tall grass, yellow flowers, and dark green reeds. Compared to the brick badlands emerging further away, it all seemed a little incongruous now. The local wildlife must have had the same opinion about me. A dragonfly closed in and hovered around, trying to figure out what I was, and whether I could be eaten. This was a biggie, a huge specimen with yellow and black bands, a monster compared to the bright blue dragonflies I usually see. Eventually his target recognition decided I was too big to be attacked and he flew off. Dragonflies are great survivors. They've been with us since the Carboniferous period, and back then some species had six foot wingspans. Definitely a trace of their DNA survives in the insect that just inspected me. That thought reminded me that the old railway cutting was just along the way. Let's see if I find another fossil or two. The exposed rock face displays the evidence that there was once a sandy beach here, a shallow bay, a warm sub-tropical paradise inabited by all sorts of animals long since vanished. In places, you can see the impression of sea shells, ranging from those very familiar to us in modern times, to that massive ribbed ammonite, a sort of 'squid in a shell'. In other places, plesiosaurs and other marine monsters have been found. What was obvious is that someone is digging these fossils out. In doing so, they're undermining the rock above, and sooner or later, their greed is going to cause death or injury. Who knows? Maybe in a few million years an intelligent species might be excavating the area and discover the crushed remains of Homo Idioticus? More likely it will be Homo Unfortunatus.

It's been quite an astonishing season for nutcases with shotguns in Britain. Sadly there's been all too many victims. Earlier this summer there was that taxi driver in Cumbria who went on a rampage, then Raoul Moat went on the run after threatening and attacking the police in Northumbria. In both cases the perpetrator shot himself. The taxi driver did so alone, Raoul Moat after a six-hour police attempt to persuade him to surrender. It always seems to end that way with random killers. I notice that in similar events in America, the gunman invariably turns the weapon on himself. This seems to be a part of human behaviour. Having lashed out at society the gunman cannot bear to face the consequences of what they've done and prefer suicide as an escape from shame. For a brief moment they're powerful. People run and hide from them in fear. Their name appears on television news with the public warned not to approach. The law-enforcement authorities concentrate all their attention on them so they feel important. Eventually, whether because reality becomes obvious, or ammunition runs low, or simply because the bloodlust fades, the perpetrator begins to understand that this temporary power is about to vanish. They cannot dictate events any more. They're contained, surrounded, powerless to act. And so they they turn the weapon on themselves. I know the correct thing is to try and apprehend the perpetrator peacefully, but if a man uses violence in this way, is he really going to consider a peaceful surrender as his best option? All too often the analysis afterward points at various indications we all should have noticed. The oddities and anomalies in their speech and actions before the event always indicate what they were planning to do in hindsight, but the problem is that most iof us wouldn't consider action of this sort so it's difficult to see the problem brewing. Right now, there are people questioning themselves and feeling shame that they didn't make that difference between life or death before Raoul Moat went on his rampage. The same thing with the taxi-driver in Cumbria. Or any other random killer. Could they really have stopped people like Raoul Moat? The rules of our society are clear. If they chose to act in this way, surely they must also have known they weren't going to get away with it forever. If mentally ill and unable to to listen to reason, what was the point of persuasion? There is a harder attitude here that is as old as humanity - An eye for eye. It's why some nations still have a death sentence in their legal system. Society needs to feel that justice has been done. Or that they can sleep safe in their homes. Perhaps it's easy for me to say this because the threat was somewhere else, but as for Raoul Moat ending his life on a riverbank at night by pulling a trigger - Good. That saved a few lives didn't it? Another Hot One Another weather warning. This time the weatherman is telling us it's going to be well hot. It's a strange thing really but we spend so much money and endure so much aggravation going abroad to experience hot weather, whereas at home we moan and groan and wish it would all go away. There's only so many times you can invite people to a barbeque in the garden. It does mean though that I'll be lying there at night unable to sleep. It's bad enough at the library this morning, with the air conditioning failing to make the air breathable with sixty computers turning up the heat. Maybe it's just a coincidence, but for once, no-one is making any noise.

There was a time when I used to enjoy good food. Okay, I'm not exactly a gourmet critic, but even in a modest supermarket it's possible to find something genuinely tasty these days. These days? That is the issue isn't it? I've been unemployed for two years, energy bills have doubled, my income hasn't, and the government want to cut the benefits we get paid. I can't afford to be too fussy or ambitious about what I eat any more, so inevitably the Pot Noodle crops up in the menu sometimes. Have you ever tried those things? It's what I imagine chinese astronauts might have to endure on long space voyages. I've become used to the Bombay Special Pot Noodle - probably the only one in the entire range that's in any way palatable - but recently that reached more than a pound a pot to purchase. It seems space flight is getting more expensive all the time. As it happens there's an alternative. A cheaper pot noodle sat on the shelf below. Looks like I'm going to have to try it. I could even stoop to the cheapest of all on the bottom shelf, costing a matter of a few pence, but my courage fails me at that point. So I purchased the unfamiliar instant meal of my choice. Curry and chips flavour. The instructions begin with "Rip off the lid in a manly fashion". Seriously, it really does say that. So after sweeping up the contents from the kitchen surface and putting it back in the plastic container, the only remaining task is to pour hot water into it. If a chinese astronaut can manage that, I'm sure I can. So what was the budget pot noodle like? Well it manages to avoid tasting bad by having no taste at all. It's like eating shredded plastic bags Not that I know what that's like, I haven't sunk to the depths of a Charlie Chaplin parody just yet, but how do you describe the sensation of something that's designed not to cause one? Just add water. Swindon By The Sea All this talk of global warming and rising sea levels reminds me of a map I once saw of what Great Britain would look like following a complete meltdown of the polar ice caps. Swindon would be roughly on the coast. It is an interesting point because it was once before. Back in parts of the Jurassic era the area, although further south at the time, was a sub-tropical archipelago with a coral reef stretching from what is now Wootton Bassett to Highworth. Back in the modern day I've just seen posters for a public event called "Swindon By The Sea". Are they serious? Maybe Swindon isn't exactly the centre of southern England, but it comes pretty darn close. How landlocked do we have to be before someone notices the sea isn't there? Climate change or not, I don't think I'll be needing to buy a boat just yet, and I doubt ethnic raindances are going to make Swindons climate any wetter. All the same, I'll keep an eye out for lines of animals marching two by two up the hill. But what's the point? That happens every saturday night...

The local paper is full of stories relating to the austerity measures our coalition government are pushing through. So far the main concern of residents appears to be crime, and whether a reduced police force is going to maintain law and order. There's another article worrying about how the young people of Swindon are going to cope with cuts in services. Probably by taking advantage of the reduced police presence I shouldn't wonder. Because Of Pay Cuts This morning I perused the libraries collection of old Ordnance Survey maps, some dating back to the 1880's. My primary interest was researching the route of a certain railway line I used to walk when I was a child. The saga of Swindons Other Railway is an interesting one. To build a north-south route through Great Western territory in the 19th century was tantamount to a declaration of war, and the two companies never fully co-operated even after being merged in 1923. When the Midland & South West Junction Railway (or in it's earlier guise, the Swindon Marlborough & Andover Railway) reached Swindon, they intended to link up with Brunels Great Western main line east of the station. The plan was to build the line through the Goddard Manor grounds, roughly between where the two lakes are at Lawns, and with some eye to compensation build a small station there too. Lord Goddard was having none of that. They can build their grimey railway somewhere else. So the next plan was to link up in the same place but instead of a route to the east of Swindon Hill, they started a tunnel under it. The workings were plagued with trouble. Swindon Hill was home to a large number of natural springs, and the complex geology did not lend itself to secure digging. In the end, workers weren't paid, and the whole thing was abandoned. The railway eventually forged a new route around the southwest of Swindon to join at Rushey Platt Junction. That of course meant Swindoners were upset, because the road that linked old town with the newer urban growth down the hill was split in two by the tunnel workings. So they built a new road that linked Victoria Street and Regents Circus, and that's where I live today. My street exists because a railway wanted to build a tunnel. The north side of the tunnel workings is now Queens Park, and looking at it today, you simply wouldn't know why it was there. Fascinating stuff.

The pen is mightier than the sword. On the face of it, that's a silly thing to say. More than once I sat through a school assembly in bored silence while the headmaster gave yet another rendition of that parable. Even as a child I knew swords were painful. Pens? They just make a mess in your pocket and give the teachers an excuse to mark you down. Perhaps that's one reason why I used to pull the wool over my teachers eyes at every excuse. I once drew a diagram of the Mexican deployment at the Battle of the Alamo - complete fiction of course - and the normally suspicious history teacher was impressed. Hey! Maybe pens have their uses after all? Heh heh heh... I could see the saga of my ailing bathroom light carrying on and on and on. It's no good, I'm going to have to resort to Text Editors of Mass Destruction. So in a state of some annoyance I typed out my letter of complaint, signed it, and passed it on to the letting agent. Yesterday afternoon an electrician called almost timed to the exact second. He stood at the doorway dedecked with tools and stepladders with a nervous smile. Poor chap was scared stiff for some reason. The repair was over in seconds, with a short wait while he went away to get some replacement bits and pieces, and lo and behold my bathroom light functions again! Warm, creamy, visible light! My urge to hug and kiss the repair man has nothing to do with sexual tendencies but I suspect that was why he was nervous to begin with. Thank you Mr Repairman, thank you! Why are you running down the stairs? Looking Good I was practising keyboards the other day when a family group stopped by the traffic lights opposite my home to cross the road. A young lady was decked out in military cammo gear. I think she was a little young for army service so I assume she was a cadet, but she did look good in that stuff. Err, I mean, she looked smart.. A credit to her unit... Excuse me a moment, I'm going to take advantage of the bathroom light repair and take a quick cold plunge before I start typing love letters. You just know that will all end in tears. Buzzing Around A thin, nasty, high pitched drone was very audible. It sounded a bit like those radio control aeroplanes. I looked around for the source of the noise and there. wafting loudly through the sky, was an autogyro. You don't see many of those flying. All it needed was a 'James Bond' soundtrack and a few explosions. Must type a letter to the manufacturers... Please make autogyro's more exciting.

No, it was a little different. Although the system was effectively the same as the older grammar schools, the newer comprehensive schools were undeniably biased toward socialist tendencies and thus every student was supposed to be treated the same. So in effect showing talent mattered little. You had to push yourself if you wanted to get somewhere. That said, there were still some teachers who were more supportive. I'm thinking of an english teacher who was very keen to keep me writing, whereas on the other end of the scale, that awful woman who went by the label of a biology teacher. Funny thing is though I got ungraded in history. Bill Slater, my history teacher, had colluded with my parents to give me a hard time for some reason. He used to jump on me for no apparent reason whatsoever - though in fairness, I got off lightly compared to some other kids.

Fair enough. But I doubt the training these auxillaries received was extensive. Raising troops to repel an invasion does indicate a matter of urgency. Unfortunately I don't have any detailed commentary on that incident but I will look further. ---===--- Okeedokee. At the age of 26 Caesar decides to raise a local army to help fight Mithradates. It says a great deal about the character of the man and his ability to organise, but be careful, because it also tells us something about the character of the people he was raising an army from. After all, we don't read of any difficulties though I have to accept that may be a measure of bias in the story. Had Caesar made the same initiative in the late empire he would have encountered the same difficulties as other leaders of the period. The quality of veterans and recruits would have been the same. Since the empire of that day was a different animal to late Republican Rome of Caesars time we have to make a lot of assumptions in this hypothetical situation. Personally, I have no doubt Caesar could have done something like that but realise he was almost certainly utilising local help in doing so. There was far less willingness to assist a military venture in the late empire, and as we know from the circumstances surrounding the gothic wars of the 4th century, Caesar would have found himself struggling with petty politics as well.

- If a roman legion, and auxillaries was involved, why do the excavators estimate the roman force at 1000 ? This was a punitive raid, not a campaign of conquest. The forces were not required to be any larger and given what had happened in AD9, perhaps the Romans could be forgiven for not risking their entire legion! - Why are most of the sandal nails, so far found concentrated at the base of the slope leading to the Germanic tribes position on the top of the hill ? Most likely that was where the Roman casualties fell. - How did the romans have enough time to get their 'artillery', that is ballista, up the hill and into position if this was an ambush ? They didn't. The bolts were fired onto the hill from the north. - Why are their no Germanic artifacts found ? Either looted from the Germans at the scene by Roman soldiers or revovered later by tribesmen - Why did the Romans not collect their used arrows and ballista projectiles after the battle ? They wanted to move on, plus there was no guarantee the spent projectiles were usable. - If it was a Roman victory why was it not more recorded ? The Romans might have mentioned the campaign in the Historia Augusta, telling us that in the summer of 238 Maximinus Thrax marched troops north from Moguntuacum (Mainz) for three or four hundred miles on a mission to revenge some damaging raids mounted by german tribesmen over the previous five years, though the plan had been prepared by his predecessor, Severus Alexander. That concurs with the approximate date of this battle. Unfortunately the Historia Augusta is widely regarded as inaccurate and thus the distances have always been in doubt. As for the scale of the batttle, it's a minor engagement. The Germans occupied a hill blocking the route of march so the Romans dealt with it and moved on quickly to avoid further encounters - they were limited in numbers. Estimates reckon it was all over in thirty minutes - and that's quick work by ancient standards - thus I doubt the records of the time paid much attention to it. Also there were other larger campaigns during the period the Romans probably found more interesting to write about. In any case, not all records survive. - Which Legion(s) were involved ? "Summer 238...Maximinus led out his entire army and crossed the bridge (over the Rhine) fearlessly, eager to do battle with the Germans. Under his command was a vast number of men, virtually the entire Roman military force, together with many Moorish javelin men and Osrehenian and Armenian archers; some were subject peoples, others friends and allies, and included, too, were a number of Parthian mercenaries and slaves captured by the Romans. Entire Roman military force? I don't think so. That sounds like a mistake by the Roman authors rather than an exaggeration. What was meant was that Maxminus took almost the entire force raised to attack the Germans, not the empires forces as a whole. - Is the similarity to the opening battle in the film 'Gladiator' purely coincidental ? Yes. But the film does not portray the forces engaged at Harzhorn Hill, but legions in Marcus Aurelius's campaigns of fifty years earlier.

Oh good grief! Even on a website I can't escape that man's sales pitch

With my daily internet stuff dealt with, it was time to depart the library and make my way into the wilds of the countryside. It was a warm day,. A very warm day, despite the plentiful cloud, and walking up the road toward Hodson I was sweating mightily. If I were honest, my own fitness was not helping, largely because I'm not as fit as I was last year. Without intending to I was finding any excuse to sit down and just chill out. Sometimes you just notice something. It grabs your attention. I remember a friend of mine, TB, a singer songwriter, who was for no apparent reason captivated by the sound of the wind rushing through the leaves of the trees. I know what he means. It can be such a relaxing noise, but in his case, his attention was drawn to it completely. So much so that he forgot he was in a well-to-do area, and a passing police car decided he should take his attention elsewhere. His embarrasement probably saved him from arrest. In my case, it was a field near the motorway. In past years I've wandered that field. At the time I thought it was left fallow, but later I realised the farmer had turned it into a tree plantation. Somewhere I have a photograph of it. A field coloured russet brown by the tightly packed stems. Yesterday that field caught my attention. In a moment of amazement I realised those trees were now twice my height, and so closely packed that it was seriously dark in there. What a wonderful haven of wildlife it must be inside that gloomy wood. On balance, I'll leave them in peace. Getting inside that thicket of trees is more trouble than it's worth. But what a difference a few years make. More Vegetation The rear gate of the old college site was open when I passed by the other day. You should see it now. Nature is well on the way to reclaiming the abandoned buildings and grounds. Tall weeds and small trees sprouting from every crevice. Funny thing is I think it looks great. It really does. Much nicer than the bare asphalt or the characterless concrete and brick walls. Like something out of a cheesey 70's sci-fi film. And I note Charlton Heston visited Swindon once in 1968. I wonder where they got the inspiration for "Planet of the Apes" from? Cutting Back The Undergrowth Talking about chilling out, I bumped into an old guy sat by a footpath enjoying the good weather. His dog, a black spaniel named Daisy growled at me. Naughty girl. "It's your backpack" The old man suggested knowingly, "The dogs don't like it." What? Nonsense. Can't a dog recognise a human being when it sees it? But after being growled at by a small terrier as I passed by I have to wonder if I need a haircut after all.

I encountered a lot of barriers in those days. University was out of the question because I failed, largely out of boredom and teenage rebellion, to get sufficient grades (but what a great time I had!). By that stage I'd discovered music and nothing was going to stop me pursuing that direction in life, especially since I was getting pressured by my parents to join the services. I don't think my father has ever really forgiven me for not joining the army as he did. As it happens I did study engineering at Swindon College. It was never a happy relationship.

Almost like writing text with a musical score. Just goes to show how lazy we are in the era of the autocue.

Actually no, he didn't. Caesar realised the importance of his centurions who were responsible for standards of training and such. He knew them all by name, which is an interesting insight into Roman senior command of his day. As it happens, whilst Caesar was a charismatic man and a gifted battlefield commander, his campaigning has been described as "careless". But yes, it was still possible in the 4th century as Sebastianus proved. As for Theodosius and the poor quality of his recruits, this was an ongoing problem in the late empire. They were taking people where-ever they could find them because the public were much less interested in serving in the legions than they had in earlier times and people who would not have passed muster in those days were now signed on.

There's nothing much going on and since I haven't been hiking much this year, I thought that Monday would be a good excuse to hit the trail. An early morning start then. That was never a problem for me. I've always been a self disciplined chap at heart. So when I began to wake around six o'clock, there was the urge to leap out of bed and be on my way - hopefully remembering to dress for the occaision - but no, a stronger urge to sleep on took hold. That's not like me. Every so often I wearily opened my eyes and the same mental battle was taking place. Stay comfortable in bed, or push the boundary of human endurance in the sun bleached rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire? Ahhh.... I should be getting out of bed... But, ahhhh.... I don't want to. Am I getting lazy? Me? This cannot be happening. So I forced myself out bed which coincidentially happened the same time I usually do these days, and packed my rucksack for the journey to the library down the road, where I typed this blog entry. But rest assured, when I've logged off, I'm out there. I mean, right out there, in the wild frontier of the Downs, risking life and limb against nettle thickets and sheep attacks N, really, I mean it. I will. Oh yeah, I need to get some milk. And I've run out of this, that, and the other... Help, it's mid-morning and all I've done so far is sit at a computer... Dubious Fun In Dubai I noticed a news item today on "How to get arrested in Dubai". I can't say that's one of my greatest ambitions. Apparently it is incredibly easy to get arrested there, so it's not exactly challenging either. It seems that drinking, intimacy, gesturing, and wearing shorts are all reasons for Dubai policemen to cart you off in handcuffs. I'm suprised they haven't declared being English as a cause for restraint. They might just as well.

It needs to be borne in mind that battle tactics in the late empire were exactly what the Romans had become unused to. Whereas in the past the Romans tended to deal with a situation from one direction massed into a large force, by the late empire they were dealing primarily with a very long turbulent frontier, a security situation they had to adapt to. Their answer was to have more but smaller legions, and a two tier system of frontier guards and 'response' legions. They no longer fought set piece battles as a rule, but conducted low level warfare. The situation in Afghanistan is an analogy if a somewhat poor one, but you get the idea? Unfortunately the centurionate was no longer what it was. Partly by design, partly through the losses incurred in civil war, and noticeably the morale and discipline of late empire troops was sadly lacking - not something conducive tio performance on the battlefield. The duplex acies may have been the most popular or the standard formation rather than the only one available. Roman commanders were rarely credited with much imagination and always, even from the earliest times, preferred brute force over clever plans - though that might also have a practical reason since the best laid plans... battlefield command was never easy. Quality - a good question. Zosimus, Vegetius, and to a lesser extent Marcellinus indicate the majority of troops were very lacklustre indeed. Valens had to make a series of speeches just to get his men to march on campaign. However - and I say this advisedly - Sebastianus chose new recruits as the core of his elite advance guard. Men described as still keen to get fighting unlike the experienced soldiers that Zosimus sneers at for being effeminate - and his choice proved a good one, because before the battle of Adrianople his raiding tactics were having a very powerful effect on gothic movements. Zosimus tells us that "Heads were being returned to Constantinople every day". In short, the capacity of the Romans to be excellent soldiers was still present, but that generally poor leadership and a persistent morale problem prevented Roman armies of the period from performing at what should have been their peak.

I suspect that if Plato wanted to tell someone something he wouldn't have written it in some mystical code. I get a bit fed up with this sort of conspiracy-theory. It's that part of the human brain that deals with religious leanings. People want this mystery in life and deliberately search for it, and you get those who claim status by stating they know more about 'the code' than anyone else. Perhaps Plato did use a code. So do a lot of us, in fact. It's called the alphabet, though I accept that's hardly a secret. How many of us understand complex mathematical equations? To some extent this sort of thing is down to misinterpretation and an innate desire for a mystery. So what was he keeping secret? His appointment schedule? His laundry list? A few notes for his next publication? Other than that, it's all cobblers.

Considering all the inventive ways that people might devise for torturing others with stakes and crosses, I wouldn't be surprised if using nails were only one of several options. Gunnar Samuelsson is from Sweden

It was a legal tradition that no-one should bear arms in the city of Rome. The Praetorians did but bear in mind they did not show them in open view. On duty they were dressed in togas with weapons concealed, rather like those black-suited security guards that hover around VIP's today. I doubt there was any requirement for territories beyond, but - And this is hypothetical because I haven't seen any evidence - it might be possible that from the Augustan Franchise onward, certain colonies or towns may have emulated Roman tradition in that way as well as impress the Senate with civic works. Any ban was unlikely to be across the entire empire but rather focused on local urban control. In fact, there is a story realted by one Roman who was drinking in a tavern when he heard a violent commotion outside. He grabs a sword - please note he was socialising with a weapon handy - and rushed outside to see if he could help or sort things out. Unluckily for him, an off-duty legionary was also doing the same thing, and spotted the gentleman carrying a sword. "What are you supposed to be then?" HE demanded. "Err... Oh.. I'm a legionary too." "Wearing slippers? Who are you trying to kid? Hand over that sword now!" And with that the embarrased storyteller does exactly as the soldier demands. He does so because the legionary might well turn on him - he's certainly acting in a threatening manner, and more than likely meant to sell the blade if it wasn't any use to him, but notice that there appears no actual bar on the ownership of weaponry by the public.

Would the Romans have bothered themselves particularly with removing nails? I'm not saying they didn't, I haven't the slightest idea about that, but it as a procedure to be carried out without fail after each and every crucifixion, it seems a little pedantic. Bear in mind that the Romans don't seem to mention iron shortages, or at leat I haven't found any references to one, and if an item is common, easy to get hold of, people generally develop a wasteful attitude. That said, if someone desperate for a few sestercii is going round retrieving nails from crucifixions, I doubt the method was all too important. Of course the body was generally given to the family following that particular death penalty which means it was taken down. I think the issue of nails is overstressed. I note that some researchers point to the fact that in places the human body doesn't readily support the total weight from a nail tacked through an extremity, and that it was more likely the criminal was tied to the cross to support him. The nail was driven in as a means of torture in that case, and removing the body wasn't really a matter of reverence. They might even have seperated the body from the cross with a measure of brute strength.

In the beginning, God said "Let there be light". And he saw that it was good. So good in fact that we human beings have invented little contrivances to achieve the same result ever since. First we invented fire (and what fun we've had with that!), and finally in the 21st century we've reached the very pinnacle of light engineering, that silly little thing screwed into the ceiling of my bathroom. Unfortunately, and much to my chagrin, I'm not God, so now the blessed thing has stopped working. Also, being a mere mortal, the mysterious workings of this lighting device are beyond my experience, and lacking the divine ability to fix and create with a flick of my fingers, I popped down to the letting agent and asked if they could send a man to see to it. Not an emergency, of course, but when you have the time. They smiled and I parted in a good mood. The time and date was set - and no-one came. I exchanged a few mobile texts in which the contractor claimed I was not present, not listening, or not co-operating, but I answered all of those and he rang me eventually to set another time and date the following day. And no-one came. So the following morning I was straight down to the letting agents office to let them know that this was going on. They arranged another time that afternoon. "You will switch your phone on?" The lady asked as I was about to leave. The cheek of it! yes, the phone will be on. A little later than the specified time the contractor phoned me and told me his boy was outside knocking on the wrong door. Could I let him in? I assumed he meant my own premises and I duly went downstairs and opened the door. No-one there. Then a foreign handyman, a young polish lad of indifferent demeanour and speaking unexceptional pidgin english, popped his head out of the downstairs flat below where I live and told me he couldn't do anything because he didn't have the parts. What? But.... He buried his nose in his mobile phone and closed the door on me. I was infuriated. I called the maintenance department of the letting agent and related my woes. Actually I don't think they were all too suprised to hear my complaint and she dragged the contractor away from his coffee to speak to me. He rattled off apology No 34 and tried to get me to accept another time this morning. Oh? Can he get the parts to fix my bathroom light in 24 hours? I'm not falling for that one. I stopped him short and requested he arrive on the following Tuesday. That should give him enough time. He agreed to the time and date, possibly with witnesses at his end. Then he added "But I might not be able to turn up." I got annoyed. What is the point of setting a time and date for a repair if you've no intention of keeping it? I've sat there for three afternoons and all I've gotten so far is 'tough luck mate' and some guy airily telling me over the phone that he doesn't answer to me and doesn't like being spoken to in such a manner. Oh really? Then maybe a good policy might be to not fob off your customers. They're All At It, You Know At times like this I wish my title had some medieval authority. I'd have that idiot boiled in oil. Take a deep breath and forget the self-important cowboy the letting agent use for domestic repairs. It's still insufferably hot and I just can't be bothered to do anything but watch television. Good grief, I've watched more television in the last month than I have over the last year! It seems the channel lists have changed and I need to retune my receiver. Luckily my receiver was designed to be used by people over the age of nine and thus was a simple and quick procedure. Now I even more shop-at-home channels advertising great new gizmos that no home could possibly do without, and exactly the sort of item you stuff in the cupboard and never use twice. The energetic young american with a microphone headpiece (don't they have recording equipment in that tv studio?) is squeezing water from a piece of space age cloth that is apparently a miracle of science. Give me a break. The only miracle here is whether I'd part money for that tatty old rag. What a con.

Medusa is right in that simply because she was a well built lady she wasn't necessarily a gladiator. There are however some subtle indications, or sometimes, obvious evidence other than size. Were there signs of violent injury, especially those that had healed? Were either of her arms longer than another? Were her feet wider and flatter - a sure sign of frequent barefoot movement?

I've had a bit of an argument with someone. There's an american chappie on another website, who claims to be a pilot of fixed and rotary winged aeroplanes over fourteen years, who's said a few things that to me seemed casually ignorant. I do actually have some sympathy for Americans, I know they get a lot of stick, but then sometimes they really do ask for it and a few times in the past I've encountered their brash arrogance - or at least the behaviour we Brits see as such. I think sometimes they get a little bewildered by our differences in language and ettiquette. Who's right? Me or him? Well, I was trained as a pilot in Britain largely by a World War Two veteran, so naturally I can sleep safe in the knowledge that I fly the right way. There is a persistent point of view that "Americans can't fly". Actually, a great many of them can, but just as in any nation you will find good or bad pilots. I'm not the worlds greatest after all. Perhaps the most interesting real comparison was a chap who popped over from the States to give flying enthusiasts a lecture about his companies homebuilt aircraft range. He knew his subject. Clearly his knowledge of aeronautical engineering was well up to the job of building, or indeed selling, his companies products. The most telling thing though was when this Californian man was asked what he thought of flying in Britain. "Well..." He mused thoughtfully, "I sat as a passenger on a flight between the Isle of Wight - Is that the right name? - and Fairoaks. Heck, I was lost in the first ten minutes". My Very Own Aeroplane? People do get a litle suspicious about my claims sometimes. I understand their reasons. Maybe I just don't conform to their preconceptions of the sort of people who 'do' things, or that they cannot comprehend that someone they know has done something beyond their own horizons. What I never do is lie about it. As a child I was always imaginative. My desire to fly aeroplanes emerges from those early years, playing out battles with plastic kits and wondering what it would be like to fly those wonderful machines, never mind the inspiration of the books with page after page of exotic aircraft beyond my experience. As a schoolchild I designed a sidevalve V8 as a project for my technical drawing classes. As an engine, it was horribly crude and it's doubtful it would ever have run succesfully had some idiot actually decided to build it. But it kept me busy. And my teacher was more than happy about that. Then along came adolescence and my leanings toward aviation could not be contained. My creative instincts took over and I began doodling not only sleek and slippery shapes, but all those interior details that an aeroplane would need. Little by little a seed took hold, and without really understanding what I was taking on, I found myself developing a concept. An aeroplane design. My very own aeroplane. Ah yes. The "Mark One" as I called it. There was never any official designation. If I were honest it was merely an attempt to realise an adolescent daydream. The problem with making something real however is that daydreams make no account of the realities. In any case, it should be pointed out that a large proportion of designs never reach fruition even with aircraft manufacturers. It wasn't an especially ambitious design, just a single engined, two seat, low wing monoplane taildragger. Wooden frame, glassfibre skin, fixed undercarriage. I didn't like the typical 'club' trainers or the flashy teardrop 'cruiser' aeroplanes that were becoming the norm back in the seventies, and some of the american oddities like Jim Bede and Burt Rutans offspring, often featured in magazines, were viewed with increasing concern by officialdom. I think deep in my heart I wanted a substitute for warbird flying and at the same time the satisfaction that I'd created this thing myself. Unfortunately, even in the less stringent regulations of the time, my design fell outside the accepted categories. Of course I was only eighteen or nineteen years old. With no qualification or practical experience of aeronautical engineering, my design fell woefully short on overcoming some of the basic obstacles of system functionality, and I knew very little of the mathematics I would have needed to succesfully convince the Popular Flying Association that the design was airworthy. They set a higher standard than the EAA and for good reason. Back then I wasn't a pilot either, and my experience of aircraft was limited to that acquired as a member of the Air Training Corps. In retrospect, I have to accept I was being hopelessly naive. That said, I did make the effort. I learned a few things. There was a positive atmosphere in my life at that age. I remember one chap who was part of my cadet flight and in the year above me at the same school who'd managed to get a board game produced commercially. It all felt as if everything was possible if only you found the right door. In my case, I ldidn't know the right equations, and I didn't know anyone who did. Perhaps if I'd found an engineer who knew more about the practicalities of aviation then something might have emerged from that particular project. As it was I'd reached the point where even I realised it was going no further. It didn't matter. I'd left the air cadets, moving on to further education at college, and music was to become the major focus of my life for the next twelve or thirteen years. I was thirty one when I found the time and finance to qualify as a pilot. There was a brief flirtation with the PFA but had I found the money and workshop facilities to build an aeroplane for myself, I would have built an established design, which the PFA naturally encourage. If any paperwork concerning the my little "Mark One" survived the passing of time, it was sent to landfill eight years ago. My father was never a man to value paper you couldn't spend. I have this cute mental image of a seagull nesting in a ragged sun-bleached remnant of faded notes and diagrams with my name on them. You never know.

They say the weather is soon to change. The map on television shows a massive arc of light blue jerking across the Atlantic toward that tiny spot on the map where I live. As an indigineous englishman this can only mean one thing. Prepare to be dampened. That said, we brits tend to ignore such baleful warnings. How can it possibly rain? Look out the window - What a glorious day! Clearly then the english have a memory span of no more than a few days. Anything longer than that is a little hazy, a difficult nightmare we'd all rather forget in our hedonisitc urge to watch football, get drunk, and wake up beside camels the morning after. I mean, the population of Britain has just spent a fortune on multi-coloured knee-length shorts which are deemed appropriate apparel for summer days. It's no good, the omens are clear. This morning the clouds lie thick and heavy across the sky, though it is still a tad warm. But then... The weatherman said we should have had light showers last night, and we didn't. I mean, if they're wrong about that, then surely that expanse of blue stuff on the map isn't anything to worry about? How could such nice weather do that to us? This is the Wimbledon season - Since when does it rain at Wimbledon? The tennis authorities would never allow it. No, it's no good, I have to accept the inevitability of getting wet. It's what being British is about. So I glance around the library at everyone else in their lightweight summer garb and snigger darkly to myself. Because while they're all busy phoning their friends and arranging garden barbeques, they're not watching the news, and therefore don't know what's coming. Heh heh heh.... Bad News Actually watching the news on television right now is not an especially uplifting experience. Watching the funeral cortege inch forward through Wootton Bassett is of course a recognition of the loss of our servicemen abroad, but that's nothing to cheer about. Job losses, especially in the public sector, are expected to rise inexorably over the next few years as the price of our coalition governments austerity measures hit home. There's no guarantee yet I'll be allowed to live where I am now. I might well face benefit cuts in the near future and with bills rising steadily if not exponentionally, quite how I'll pay them is a matter of optimism. Now we have some guy claiming that we need to reduce the prison population. That would be nice, I suppose, and cheaper for the public in the long run, but doesn't that ignore the essential points? That prison is intended to punish illegal activity. Okay, rehabilitation has a purpose but you have to wonder how effective it is. The prison population is rising steadily. And with hardship becoming a part of British life in the next few years, the temptation to commit crime isn't going to go away. Neither is that black lady in the next cubicle. She sat down deeply engrossed in discussing the personal lives of her family on her mobile phone. No, I've had enough. I motion her her to stay silent. It was intended to a polite gesture but being a bolshy lady intent on pursuing her activity whatever the rest of the world thinks, she screwed her face up and made an incredulous statement that she can use her phone where-ever she likes. No, you can't. It's a library. She sneered and defiantly told me she would use her phone regardless, as if she had some personal right to intrude on everyone else. Okay, then I'll have see the librarian on the helpdesk, who turned out to a hesitant young man clearly qualing at the thought of tackling this afro-carribean Boudicaea. She described me as someone who must have been a snitch at school. That I told her to shush like a dog. That she uses her mobile phone everywhere. That I should tell her to be quiet on the street. When we part company as either of us finish our business on the PC, will she forget the confrontation, or will she make a snide comment? We will see, and in any case, I really don't want to meet this woman on the street for any reason. She's clearly bad news.